VI. The City Decorated…

VI. The City Decorated

Then Ráma bathed in order due, His mind from worldly thoughts withdrew, And with his large-eyed wife besought Náráyaṇ, as a votary ought. Upon his head the brimming cup Of holy oil he lifted up, Then placed within the kindled fire The offering to that heavenly Sire, And as he sipped the remnant prayed To Him for blessing and for aid. Then with still lips and tranquil mind With his Videhan he reclined, In Vishṇu’s chapel, on a bed Where holy grass was duly spread, While still the prince’s every thought The God supreme, Náráyaṇ, sought. One watch remained the night to close When Ráma from his couch arose, And bade the men and maids adorn His palace for the solemn morn. He heard the bards and heralds raise Auspicious strains of joy and praise; And breathed devout, with voice restrained, The hymn for morning rites ordained; Then, with his head in reverence bowed, Praised Madhu’s conquering foe aloud, And, in pure linen robes arrayed, The priests to raise their voices prayed. Obedient to the summons they Proclaimed to all the festal day. The Bráhmans’ voices, deep and sweet, Resounded through the crowded street, And echoed through Ayodhyá went By many a loud-toned instrument. Then all the people joyed to hear That Ráma with his consort dear Had fasted till the morning light In preparation for the rite. Swiftly the joyful tidings through Ayodhyá’s crowded city flew, And soon as dawn appeared, each man To decorate the town began. In all the temples bright and fair As white clouds towering in the air, In streets, and where the cross-ways met, Where holy fig-trees had been set, In open square, in sacred shade, Where merchants’ shops their wealth displayed, On all the mansions of the great, And householders of wealth and state, Where’er the people loved to meet, Where’er a tree adorned the street, Gay banners floated to the wind, And ribands round the staves were twined. Then clear the singers’ voices rang, As, charming mind and ear, they sang. Here players shone in bright attire, There dancing women swelled the quire. Each with his friend had much to say Of Ráma’s consecration-day: Yea, even children, as they played At cottage doors beneath the shade. The royal street with flowers was strown Which loving hands in heaps had thrown, And here and there rich incense lent Its fragrance to the garland’s scent; And all was fresh and fair and bright In honour of the coming rite. With careful foresight to illume With borrowed blaze the midnight gloom, The crowds erected here and there Trees in each street gay lamps to bear. The city thus from side to side In festal guise was beautified. The people of the town who longed To view the rite together thronged, And filling every court and square Praised the good king in converse there: “Our high-souled king! He throws a grace On old Ikshváku’s royal race. He feels his years’ increasing weight, And makes his son associate. Great joy to us the choice will bring Of Ráma for our lord and king. The good and bad to him are known, And long will he protect his own. No pride his prudent breast may swell, Most just, he loves his brothers well, And to us all that love extends, Cherished as brothers and as friends. Long may our lord in life remain, Good Daśaratha, free from stain, By whose most gracious favour we Ráma anointed king shall see.”

Such were the words the townsmen spoke Heard by the gathering countryfolk, Who from the south, north, east, and west, Stirred by the joyful tidings, pressed. For by their eager longing led To Ráma’s consecration sped The villagers from every side, And filled Ayodhyá’s city wide. This way and that way strayed the crowd, While rose a murmur long and loud, As when the full moon floods the skies And Ocean’s waves with thunder rise. That town, like Indra’s city fair, While peasants thronged her ways, Tumultuous roared like Ocean, where Each flood-born monster plays.

VII. Manthará’s Lament

It chanced a slave-born handmaid, bred With Queen Kaikeyí, fancy-led, Mounted the stair and stood upon The terrace like the moon that shone. Thence Manthará at ease surveyed Ayodhyá to her eyes displayed, Where water cooled the royal street, Where heaps of flowers were fresh and sweet, And costly flags and pennons hung On roof and tower their shadow flung; With covered ways prepared in haste, And many an awning newly placed; With sandal-scented streams bedewed, Thronged by a new bathed multitude: Whose streets were full of Bráhman bands With wreaths and sweetmeats in their hands. Loud instruments their music raised, And through the town, where’er she gazed, The doors of temples glittered white, And the maid marvelled at the sight.

Of Ráma’s nurse who, standing by, Gazed with a joy-expanded eye, In robes of purest white attired, The wondering damsel thus inquired:

“Does Ráma’s mother give away Rich largess to the crowds to-day, On some dear object fondly bent, Or blest with measureless content? What mean these signs of rare delight On every side that meet my sight? Say, will the king with joy elate Some happy triumph celebrate?”

The nurse, with transport uncontrolled, Her glad tale to the hump-back told: “Our lord the king to-morrow morn Will consecrate his eldest-born, And raise, in Pushya’s favouring hour, Prince Ráma to the royal power.” As thus the nurse her tidings spoke, Rage in the hump-back’s breast awoke. Down from the terrace, like the head Of high Kailása’s hill, she sped. Sin in her thoughts, her soul aflame, Where Queen Kaikeyí slept, she came: “Why sleepest thou?” she cried, “arise, Peril is near, unclose thine eyes. Ah, heedless Queen, too blind to know What floods of sin above thee flow! Thy boasts of love and grace are o’er: Thine is the show and nothing more. His favour is an empty cheat, A torrent dried by summer’s heat.”

Thus by the artful maid addressed In cruel words from raging breast, The queen, sore troubled, spoke in turn; “What evil news have I to learn? That mournful eye, that altered cheek Of sudden woe or danger speak.”

Such were the words Kaikeyí said: Then Manthará, her eyeballs red With fury, skilled with treacherous art To grieve yet more her lady’s heart, From Ráma, in her wicked hate, Kaikeyí’s love to alienate, Upon her evil purpose bent Began again most eloquent: “Peril awaits thee swift and sure, And utter woe defying cure; King Daśaratha will create Prince Ráma Heir Associate. Plunged in the depths of wild despair, My soul a prey to pain and care, As though the flames consumed me, zeal Has brought me for my lady’s weal, Thy grief, my Queen, is grief to me: Thy gain my greatest gain would be. Proud daughter of a princely line, The rights of consort queen are thine. How art thou, born of royal race, Blind to the crimes that kings debase? Thy lord is gracious, to deceive, And flatters, but thy soul to grieve, While thy pure heart that thinks no sin Knows not the snares that hem thee in. Thy husband’s lips on thee bestow Soft soothing word, an empty show: The wealth, the substance, and the power This day will be Kauśalyá’s dower. With crafty soul thy child he sends To dwell among thy distant friends, And, every rival far from sight, To Ráma gives the power and might. Ah me! for thou, unhappy dame, Deluded by a husband’s name, With more than mother’s love hast pressed A serpent to thy heedless breast, And cherished him who works thee woe, No husband but a deadly foe. For like a snake, unconscious Queen, Or enemy who stabs unseen, King Daśaratha all untrue Has dealt with thee and Bharat too. Ah, simple lady, long beguiled By his soft words who falsely smiled! Poor victim of the guileless breast, A happier fate thou meritest. For thee and thine destruction waits When he Prince Ráma consecrates. Up, lady, while there yet is time; Preserve thyself, prevent the crime. Up, from thy careless ease, and free Thyself, O Queen, thy son, and me!”

Delighted at the words she said, Kaikeyí lifted from the bed, Like autumn’s moon, her radiant head, And joyous at the tidings gave A jewel to the hump-back slave; And as she gave the precious toy She cried in her exceeding joy: “Take this, dear maiden, for thy news Most grateful to mine ear, and choose What grace beside most fitly may The welcome messenger repay. I joy that Ráma gains the throne: Kauśalyá’s son is as mine own.”

VIII. Manthará’s Speech

The damsel’s breast with fury burned: She answered, as the gift she spurned: “What time, O simple Queen, is this For idle dreams of fancied bliss? Hast thou not sense thy state to know, Engulfed in seas of whelming woe; Sick as I am with grief and pain My lips can scarce a laugh restrain To see thee hail with ill-timed joy A peril mighty to destroy. I mourn for one so fondly blind: What woman of a prudent mind Would welcome, e’en as thou hast done, The lordship of a rival’s son, Rejoiced to find her secret foe Empowered, like death, to launch the blow; I see that Ráma still must fear Thy Bharat, to his throne too near. Hence is my heart disquieted, For those who fear are those we dread. Lakshmaṇ, the mighty bow who draws, With all his soul serves Ráma’s cause; And chains as strong to Bharat bind Śatrughna, with his heart and mind, Now next to Ráma, lady fair, Thy Bharat is the lawful heir: And far remote, I ween, the chance That might the younger two advance. Yes, Queen, ’tis Ráma that I dread, Wise, prompt, in warlike science bred; And oh, I tremble when I think Of thy dear child on ruin’s brink. Blest with a lofty fate is she, Kauśalyá; for her son will be Placed, when the moon and Pushya meet, By Bráhmans on the royal seat, Thou as a slave in suppliant guise Must wait upon Kauśalyá’s eyes, With all her wealth and bliss secured And glorious from her foes assured. Her slave with us who serve thee, thou Wilt see thy son to Ráma bow, And Sítá’s friends exult o’er all, While Bharat’s wife shares Bharat’s fall.”

As thus the maid in wrath complained, Kaikeyí saw her heart was pained, And answered eager in defence Of Ráma’s worth and excellence: “Nay, Ráma, born the monarch’s heir, By holy fathers trained with care, Virtuous, grateful, pure, and true, Claims royal sway as rightly due. He, like a sire, will long defend Each brother, minister, and friend. Then why, O hump-back, art thou pained To hear that he the throne has gained? Be sure when Ráma’s empire ends, The kingdom to my son descends, Who, when a hundred years are flown, Shall sit upon his fathers’ throne. Why is thine heart thus sad to see The joy that is and long shall be, This fortune by possession sure And hopes which we may count secure? Dear as the darling son I bore Is Ráma, yea, or even more. Most duteous to Kauśalyá, he Is yet more dutiful to me. What though he rule, we need not fear: His brethren to his soul are dear. And if the throne Prince Ráma fill Bharat will share the empire still.”

She ceased. The troubled damsel sighed Sighs long and hot, and thus replied: “What madness has possessed thy mind, To warnings deaf, to dangers blind? Canst thou not see the floods of woe That threaten o’er thine head to flow: First Ráma will the throne acquire, Then Ráma’s son succeed his sire, While Bharat will neglected pine Excluded from the royal line. Not all his sons, O lady fair, The kingdom of a monarch share: All ruling when a sovereign dies Wild tumult in the state would rise. The eldest, be he good or ill, Is ruler by the father’s will. Know, tender mother, that thy son Without a friend and all undone, Far from the joyous ease of home An alien from his race will roam. I sped to thee for whom I feel, But thy fond heart mistakes my zeal, Thy hand a present would bestow Because thy rival triumphs so. When Ráma once begins his sway Without a foe his will to stay, Thy darling Bharat he will drive To distant lands if left alive. By thee the child was sent away Beneath his grandsire’s roof to stay. Even in stocks and stones perforce Will friendship spring from intercourse. The young Śatrughna too would go With Bharat, for he loved him so. As Lakshmaṇ still to Ráma cleaves, He his dear Bharat never leaves. There is an ancient tale they tell: A tree the foresters would fell Was saved by reeds that round it stood, For love that sprang of neighbourhood. So Lakshmaṇ Ráma will defend, And each on each for aid depend. Such fame on earth their friendship wins As that which binds the Heavenly Twins. And Ráma ne’er will purpose wrong To Lakshmaṇ, for their love is strong. But Bharat, Oh, of this be sure, Must evil at his hands endure. Come, Ráma from his home expel An exile in the woods to dwell. The plan, O Queen, which I advise Secures thy weal if thou be wise. So we and all thy kith and kin Advantage from thy gain shall win. Shall Bharat, meet for happier fate, Born to endure his rival’s hate, With all his fortune ruined cower And dread his brother’s mightier power! Up, Queen, to save thy son, arise; Prostrate at Ráma’s feet he lies. So the proud elephant who leads His trooping consorts through the reeds Falls in the forest shade beneath The lion’s spring and murderous teeth. Scorned by thee in thy bliss and pride Kauśalyá was of old defied, And will she now forbear to show The vengeful rancour of a foe? O Queen, thy darling is undone When Ráma’s hand has once begun Ayodhyá’s realm to sway, Come, win the kingdom for thy child And drive the alien to the wild In banishment to-day.”

IX. The Plot

As fury lit Kaikeyí’s eyes She spoke with long and burning sighs: “This day my son enthroned shall see, And Ráma to the woods shall flee. But tell me, damsel, if thou can, A certain way, a skilful plan That Bharat may the empire gain, And Ráma’s hopes be nursed in vain.”

The lady ceased. The wicked maid The mandate of her queen obeyed, And darkly plotting Ráma’s fall Responded to Kaikeyí’s call.

“I will declare, do thou attend, How Bharat may his throne ascend. Dost thou forget what things befell? Or dost thou feign, remembering well? Or wouldst thou hear my tongue repeat A story for thy need so meet? Gay lady, if thy will be so, Now hear the tale of long ago, And when my tongue has done its part Ponder the story in thine heart. When Gods and demons fought of old, Thy lord, with royal saints enrolled, Sped to the war with thee to bring His might to aid the Immortals’ King. Far to the southern land he sped Where Daṇḍak’s mighty wilds are spread, To Vaijayanta’s city swayed By Śambara, whose flag displayd The hugest monster of the sea. Lord of a hundred wiles was be; With might which Gods could never blame Against the King of Heaven he came. Then raged the battle wild and dread, And mortal warriors fought and bled; The fiends by night with strength renewed Charged, slew the sleeping multitude. Thy lord, King Daśaratha, long Stood fighting with the demon throng, But long of arm, unmatched in strength, Fell wounded by their darts at length. Thy husband, senseless, by thine aid Was from the battle field conveyed, And wounded nigh to death thy lord Was by thy care to health restored. Well pleased the grateful monarch sware To grant thy first and second prayer. Thou for no favour then wouldst sue, The gifts reserved for season due; And he, thy high-souled lord, agreed To give the boons when thou shouldst need. Myself I knew not what befell, But oft the tale have heard thee tell, And close to thee in friendship knit Deep in my heart have treasured it. Remind thy husband of his oath, Recall the boons and claim them both, That Bharat on the throne be placed With rites of consecration graced, And Ráma to the woods be sent For twice seven years of banishment. Go, Queen, the mourner’s chamber(270) seek, With angry eye and burning cheek; And with disordered robes and hair On the cold earth lie prostrate there. When the king comes still mournful lie, Speak not a word nor meet his eye, But let thy tears in torrent flow, And lie enamoured of thy woe. Well do I know thou long hast been, And ever art, his darling queen. For thy dear sake, O well-loved dame, The mighty king would brave the flame, But ne’er would anger thee, or brook To meet his favourite’s wrathful look. Thy loving lord would even die Thy fancy, Queen, to gratify, And never could he arm his breast To answer nay to thy request. Listen and learn, O dull of sense, Thine all-resistless influence. Gems he will offer, pearls and gold: Refuse his gifts, be stern and cold. Those proffered boons at length recall, And claim them till he grants thee all. And O my lady, high in bliss, With heedful thought forget not this. When from the ground his queen he lifts And grants again the promised gifts, Bind him with oaths he cannot break And thy demands unflnching, make. That Ráma travel to the wild Five years and nine from home exiled, And Bharat, best of all who reign, The empire of the land obtain. For when this term of years has fled Over the banished Ráma’s head, Thy royal son to vigour grown And rooted firm will stand alone. The king, I know, is well inclined, And this the hour to move his mind. Be bold: the threatened rite prevent, And force the king from his intent.”

She ceased. So counselled to her bane Disguised beneath a show of gain, Kaikeyí in her joy and pride To Manthará again replied: “Thy sense I envy, prudent maid; With sagest lore thy lids persuade. No hump-back maid in all the earth, For wise resolve, can match thy worth. Thou art alone with constant zeal Devoted to thy lady’s weal. Dear girl, without thy faithful aid I had not marked the plot he laid. Full of all guile and sin and spite Misshapen hump-backs shock the sight: But thou art fair and formed to please, Bent like a lily by the breeze. I look thee o’er with watchful eye, And in thy frame no fault can spy; The chest so deep, the waist so trim, So round the lines of breast and limb.(271) Thy cheeks with moonlike beauty shine, And the warm wealth of youth is thine. Thy legs, my girl, are long and neat, And somewhat long thy dainty feet, While stepping out before my face Thou seemest like a crane to pace. The thousand wiles are in thy breast Which Śambara the fiend possessed, And countless others all thine own, O damsel sage, to thee are known. Thy very hump becomes thee too, O thou whose face is fair to view, For there reside in endless store Plots, wizard wiles, and warrior lore. A golden chain I’ll round it fling When Ráma’s flight makes Bharat king: Yea, polished links of finest gold, When once the wished for prize I hold With naught to fear and none to hate, Thy hump, dear maid, shall decorate. A golden frontlet wrought with care, And precious jewels shalt thou wear: Two lovely robes around thee fold, And walk a Goddess to behold, Bidding the moon himself compare His beauty with a face so fair. With scent of precious sandal sweet Down to the nails upon thy feet, First of the household thou shalt go And pay with scorn each battled foe.”

Kaikeyí’s praise the damsel heard, And thus again her lady stirred, Who lay upon her beauteous bed Like fire upon the altar fed: “Dear Queen, they build the bridge in vain When swollen streams are dry again. Arise, thy glorious task complete, And draw the king to thy retreat.”

The large-eyed lady left her bower Exulting in her pride of power, And with the hump-back sought the gloom And silence of the mourner’s room. The string of priceless pearls that hung Around her neck to earth she flung, With all the wealth and lustre lent By precious gem and ornament. Then, listening to her slave’s advice, Lay, like a nymph from Paradise. As on the ground her limbs she laid Once more she cried unto the maid: “Soon must thou to the monarch say Kaikeyí’s soul has past away, Or, Ráma banished as we planned, My son made king shall rule the land. No more for gold and gems I care, For brave attire or dainty fare. If Ráma should the throne ascend, That very hour my life will end.”

The royal lady wounded through The bosom with the darts that flew Launched from the hump-back’s tongue Pressed both her hands upon her side, And o’er and o’er again she cried With wildering fury stung: “Yes, it shall be thy task to tell That I have hurried hence to dwell In Yáma’s realms of woe, Or happy Bharat shall be king, And doomed to years of wandering Kauśalyá’s son shall go. I heed not dainty viands now Fair wreaths of flowers to twine my brow, Soft balm or precious scent: My very life I count as naught, Nothing on earth can claim my thought But Ráma’s banishment.” She spoke these words of cruel ire; Then stripping off her gay attire, The cold bare floor she pressed. So, falling from her home on high, Some lovely daughter of the sky Upon the ground might rest. With darkened brow and furious mien, Stripped of her gems and wreath, the queen In spotless beauty lay, Like heaven obscured with gathering cloud, When shades of midnight darkness shroud Each star’s expiring ray.

X. Dasaratha’s Speech

As Queen Kaikeyí thus obeyed The sinful counsel of her maid She sank upon the chamber floor, As sinks in anguish, wounded sore, An elephant beneath the smart Of the wild hunter’s venomed dart. The lovely lady in her mind Revolved the plot her maid designed, And prompt the gain and risk to scan She step by step approved the plan. Misguided by the hump-back’s guile She pondered her resolve awhile, As the fair path that bliss secured The miserable lady lured, Devoted to her queen, and swayed By hopes of gain and bliss, the maid Rejoiced, her lady’s purpose known, And deemed the prize she sought her own. Then bent upon her purpose dire, Kaikeyí with her soul on fire, Upon the floor lay, languid, down, Her brows contracted in a frown. The bright-hued wreath that bound her hair, Chains, necklets, jewels rich and rare, Stripped off by her own fingers lay Spread on the ground in disarray, And to the floor a lustre lent As stars light up the firmament. Thus prostrate in the mourner’s cell, In garb of woe the lady fell, Her long hair in a single braid, Like some fair nymph of heaven dismayed.(272)

The monarch, Ráma to install, With thoughtful care had ordered all, And now within his home withdrew, Dismissing first his retinue. Now all the town has heard, thought he, What joyful rite the morn will see. So turned he to her bower to cheer With the glad news his darling’s ear. Majestic, as the Lord of Night, When threatened by the Dragon’s might, Bursts radiant on the evening sky Pale with the clouds that wander by, So Daśaratha, great in fame, To Queen Kaikeyí’s palace came. There parrots flew from tree to tree, And gorgeous peacocks wandered free, While ever and anon was heard The note of some glad water-bird. Here loitered dwarf and hump-backed maid, There lute and lyre sweet music played. Here, rich in blossom, creepers twined O’er grots with wondrous art designed, There Champac and Aśoka flowers Hung glorious o’er the summer bowers, And mid the waving verdure rose Gold, silver, ivory porticoes. Through all the months in ceaseless store The trees both fruit and blossom bore. With many a lake the grounds were graced; Seats gold and silver, here were placed; Here every viand wooed the taste, It was a garden meet to vie E’en with the home of Gods on high. Within the mansion rich and vast The mighty Daśaratha passed: Not there was his beloved queen On her fair couch reclining seen. With love his eager pulses beat For the dear wife he came to meet, And in his blissful hopes deceived, He sought his absent love and grieved. For never had she missed the hour Of meeting in her sumptuous bower, And never had the king of men Entered the empty room till then. Still urged by love and anxious thought News of his favourite queen he sought, For never had his loving eyes Found her or selfish or unwise. Then spoke at length the warder maid, With hands upraised and sore afraid: “My Lord and King, the queen has sought The mourner’s cell with rage distraught.”

The words the warder maiden said He heard with soul disquieted, And thus as fiercer grief assailed, His troubled senses wellnigh failed. Consumed by torturing fires of grief The king, the world’s imperial chief, His lady lying on the ground In most unqueenly posture, found. The aged king, all pure within, Saw the young queen resolved on sin, Low on the ground, his own sweet wife, To him far dearer than his life, Like some fair creeping plant uptorn, Or like a maid of heaven forlorn, A nymph of air or Goddess sent From Swarga down in banishment.

As some wild elephant who tries To soothe his consort as she lies Struck by the hunter’s venomed dart, So the great king disturbed in heart, Strove with soft hand and fond caress To soothe his darling queen’s distress, And in his love addressed with sighs The lady of the lotus eyes: “I know not, Queen, why thou shouldst be Thus angered to the heart with me. Say, who has slighted thee, or whence Has come the cause of such offence That in the dust thou liest low, And rendest my fond heart with woe, As if some goblin of the night Had struck thee with a deadly blight, And cast foul influence on her Whose spells my loving bosom stir? I have Physicians famed for skill, Each trained to cure some special ill: My sweetest lady, tell thy pain, And they shall make thee well again. Whom, darling, wouldst thou punished see? Or whom enriched with lordly fee? Weep not, my lovely Queen, and stay This grief that wears thy frame away; Speak, and the guilty shall be freed. The guiltless be condemned to bleed, The poor enriched, the rich abased, The low set high, the proud disgraced. My lords and I thy will obey, All slaves who own thy sovereign sway; And I can ne’er my heart incline To check in aught one wish of thine. Now by my life I pray thee tell The thoughts that in thy bosom dwell. The power and might thou knowest well, Should from thy breast all doubt expel. I swear by all my merit won, Speak, and thy pleasure shall be done. Far as the world’s wide bounds extend My glorious empire knows no end. Mine are the tribes in eastern lands, And those who dwell on Sindhu’s sands: Mine is Suráshṭra, far away, Suvíra’s realm admits my sway. My best the southern nations fear, The Angas and the Vangas hear. And as lord paramount I reign O’er Magadh and the Matsyas’ plain, Kośal, and Káśi’s wide domain:(273) All rich in treasures of the mine, In golden corn, sheep, goats, and kine. Choose what thou wilt. Kaikeyí, thence: But tell me, O my darling, whence Arose thy grief, and it shall fly Like hoar-frost when the sun is high.”

She, by his loving words consoled, Longed her dire purpose to unfold, And sought with sharper pangs to wring The bosom of her lord the king.

XI. The Queen’s Demand

To him enthralled by love, and blind, Pierced by his darts who shakes the mind,(274) Kaikeyí with remorseless breast Her grand purpose thus expressed: “O King, no insult or neglect Have I endured, or disrespect. One wish I have, and faith would see That longing granted, lord, by thee. Now pledge thy word if thou incline To listen to this prayer of mine, Then I with confidence will speak, And thou shalt hear the boon I seek.”

Ere she had ceased, the monarch fell, A victim to the lady’s spell, And to the deadly snare she set Sprang, like a roebuck to the net. Her lover raised her drooping head, Smiled, playing with her hair, and said: “Hast thou not learnt, wild dame, till now That there is none so dear as thou To me thy loving husband, save My Ráma bravest of the brave? By him my race’s high-souled heir, By him whom none can match, I swear, Now speak the wish that on thee weighs: By him whose right is length of days, Whom if my fond paternal eye Saw not one hour I needs must die,— I swear by Ráma my dear son, Speak, and thy bidding shall be done. Speak, darling; if thou choose, request To have the heart from out my breast; Regard my words, sweet love, and name The wish thy mind thinks fit to frame. Nor let thy soul give way to doubt: My power should drive suspicion out. Yea, by my merits won I swear, Speak, darling, I will grant thy prayer.”

The queen, ambitious, overjoyed To see him by her plot decoyed, More eager still her aims to reach, Spoke her abominable speech: “A boon thou grantest, nothing loth, And swearest with repeated oath. Now let the thirty Gods and three My witnesses, with Indra, be. Let sun and moon and planets hear, Heaven, quarters, day and night, give ear. The mighty world, the earth outspread, With bards of heaven and demons dread; The ghosts that walk in midnight shade, And household Gods, our present aid, A every being great and small To hear and mark the oath I call.”

When thus the archer king was bound, With treacherous arts and oaths enwound, She to her bounteous lord subdued By blinding love, her speech renewed: “Remember, King, that long-past day Of Gods’ and demons’ battle fray. And how thy foe in doubtful strife Had nigh bereft thee of thy life. Remember, it was only I Preserved thee when about to die, And thou for watchful love and care Wouldst grant my first and second prayer. Those offered boons, pledged with thee then, I now demand, O King of men, Of thee, O Monarch, good and just, Whose righteous soul observes each trust. If thou refuse thy promise sworn, I die, despised, before the morn. These rites in Ráma’s name begun— Transfer them, and enthrone my son. The time is come to claim at last The double boon of days long-past, When Gods and demons met in fight, And thou wouldst fain my care requite. Now forth to Daṇḍak’s forest drive Thy Ráma for nine years and five, And let him dwell a hermit there With deerskin coat and matted hair. Without a rival let my boy The empire of the land enjoy, And let mine eyes ere morning see Thy Ráma to the forest flee.”

XII. Dasaratha’s Lament

The monarch, as Kaikeyí pressed With cruel words her dire request, Stood for a time absorbed in thought While anguish in his bosom wrought. “Does some wild dream my heart assail? Or do my troubled senses fail? Does some dire portent scare my view? Or frenzy’s stroke my soul subdue?” Thus as he thought, his troubled mind In doubt and dread no rest could find, Distressed and trembling like a deer Who sees the dreaded tigress near. On the bare ground his limbs he threw, And many a long deep sigh he drew, Like a wild snake, with fury blind, By charms within a ring confined. Once as the monarch’s fury woke, “Shame on thee!” from his bosom broke, And then in sense-bewildering pain He fainted on the ground again. At length, when slowly strength returned, He answered as his eyeballs burned With the wild fury of his ire Consuming her, as ’twere, with fire: “Fell traitress, thou whose thoughts design The utter ruin of my line, What wrong have I or Ráma done? Speak murderess, speak thou wicked one, Seeks he not evermore to please Thee with all sonlike courtesies? By what persuasion art thou led To bring this ruin on his head? Ah me, that fondly unaware I brought thee home my life to share, Called daughter of a king, in truth A serpent with a venomed tooth! What fault can I pretend to find In Ráma praised by all mankind, That I my darling should forsake? No, take my life, my glory take: Let either queen be from me torn, But not my well-loved eldest-born. Him but to see is highest bliss, And death itself his face to miss. The world may sunless stand, the grain May thrive without the genial rain, But if my Ráma be not nigh My spirit from its frame will fly. Enough, thine impious plan forgo, O thou who plottest sin and woe. My head before thy feet, I kneel, And pray thee some compassion feel. O wicked dame, what can have led Thy heart to dare a plot so dread? Perchance thy purpose is to sound The grace thy son with me has found; Perchance the words that, all these days, Thou still hast said in Ráma’s praise, Were only feigned, designed to cheer With flatteries a father’s ear. Soon as thy grief, my Queen, I knew, My bosom felt the anguish too. In empty halls art thou possessed, And subject to anothers’ hest? Now on Ikshváku’s ancient race Falls foul disorder and disgrace, If thou, O Queen, whose heart so long Has loved the good should choose the wrong. Not once, O large-eyed dame, hast thou Been guilty of offence till now, Nor said a word to make me grieve, Now will I now thy sin believe. With thee my Ráma used to hold Like place with Bharat lofty-souled. As thou so often, when the pair Were children yet, wouldst fain declare. And can thy righteous soul endure That Ráma glorious, pious, pure, Should to the distant wilds be sent For fourteen years of banishment? Yea, Ráma Bharat’s self exceeds In love to thee and sonlike deeds, And, for deserving love of thee, As Bharat, even so is he. Who better than that chieftain may Obedience, love, and honour pay, Thy dignity with care protect, Thy slightest word and wish respect? Of all his countless followers none Can breathe a word against my son; Of many thousands not a dame Can hint reproach or whisper blame. All creatures feel the sweet control Of Ráma’s pure and gentle soul. The pride of Manu’s race he binds To him the people’s grateful minds. He wins the subjects with his truth, The poor with gifts and gentle ruth, His teachers with his docile will, The foemen with his archer skill. Truth, purity, religious zeal, The hand to give, the heart to feel, The love that ne’er betrays a friend, The rectitude that naught can bend, Knowledge, and meek obedience grace My Ráma pride of Raghu’s race. Canst thou thine impious plot design ’Gainst him in whom these virtues shine, Whose glory with the sages vies, Peer of the Gods who rule the skies! From him no harsh or bitter word To pain one creature have I heard, And how can I my son address, For thee, with words of bitterness? Have mercy, Queen: some pity show To see my tears of anguish flow, And listen to my mournful cry, A poor old man who soon must die. Whate’er this sea-girt land can boast Of rich and rare from coast to coast, To thee, my Queen, I give it all: But O, thy deadly words recall: O see, my suppliant hands entreat, Again my lips are on thy feet: Save Ráma, save my darling child, Nor kill me with this sin defiled.” He grovelled on the ground, and lay To burning grief a senseless prey, And ever and anon, assailed By floods of woe he wept and wailed, Striving with eager speed to gain The margent of his sea of pain.

With fiercer words she fiercer yet The hapless father’s pleading met: “O Monarch, if thy soul repent The promise and thy free consent, How wilt thou in the world maintain Thy fame for truth unsmirched with stain? When gathered kings with thee converse, And bid thee all the tale rehearse, What wilt thou say, O truthful King, In answer to their questioning? “She to whose love my life I owe, Who saved me smitten by the foe, Kaikeyí, for her tender care, Was cheated of the oath I sware.” Thus wilt thou answer, and forsworn Wilt draw on thee the princes’ scorn. Learn from that tale, the Hawk and Dove,(275) How strong for truth was Saivya’s love. Pledged by his word the monarch gave His flesh the suppliant bird to save. So King Alarka gave his eyes, And gained a mansion in the skies. The Sea himself his promise keeps, And ne’er beyond his limit sweeps. My deeds of old again recall, Nor let thy bond dishonoured fall. The rights of truth thou wouldst forget, Thy Ráma on the throne to set, And let thy days in pleasure glide, Fond King, Kauśalyá by thy side. Now call it by what name thou wilt, Justice, injustice, virtue, guilt, Thy word and oath remain the same, And thou must yield what thus I claim. If Ráma be anointed, I This very day will surely die, Before thy face will poison drink, And lifeless at thy feet will sink. Yea, better far to die than stay Alive to see one single day The crowds before Kauśalyá stand And hail her queen with reverent hand. Now by my son, myself, I swear, No gift, no promise whatsoe’er My steadfast soul shall now content, But only Ráma’s banishment.”

So far she spake by rage impelled, And then the queen deep silence held. He heard her speech full fraught with ill, But spoke no word bewildered still, Gazed on his love once held so dear Who spoke unlovely rede to hear; Then as he slowly pondered o’er The queen’s resolve and oath she swore. Once sighing forth, Ah Ráma! he Fell prone as falls a smitten tree. His senses lost like one insane, Faint as a sick man weak with pain, Or like a wounded snake dismayed, So lay the king whom earth obeyed. Long burning sighs he slowly heaved, As, conquered by his woe, he grieved, And thus with tears and sobs between His sad faint words addressed the queen:

“By whom, Kaikeyí, wast thou taught This flattering hope with ruin fraught? Have goblins seized thy soul, O dame, Who thus canst speak and feel no shame? Thy mind with sin is sicklied o’er, From thy first youth ne’er seen before. A good and loving wife wast thou, But all, alas! is altered now. What terror can have seized thy breast To make thee frame this dire request, That Bharat o’er the land may reign, And Ráma in the woods remain? Turn from thine evil ways, O turn, And thy perfidious counsel spurn, If thou would fain a favour do To people, lord, and Bharat too. O wicked traitress, fierce and vile, Who lovest deeds of sin and guile, What crime or grievance dost thou see, What fault in Ráma or in me? Thy son will ne’er the throne accept If Ráma from his rights be kept, For Bharat’s heart more firmly yet Than Ráma’s is on justice set. How shall I say, Go forth, and brook Upon my Ráma’s face to look, See his pale cheek and ashy lips Dimmed like the moon in sad eclipse? How see the plan so well prepared When prudent friends my counsels shared, All ruined, like a host laid low Beneath some foeman’s murderous blow. What will these gathered princes say, From regions near and far away? “O’erlong endures the monarch’s reign, or now he is a child again.” When many a good and holy sage In Scripture versed, revered for age, Shall ask for Ráma, what shall I Unhappy, what shall I reply? “By Queen Kaikeyí long distressed I drove him forth and dispossessed.” Although herein the truth I speak, They all will hold me false and weak. What will Kauśalyá say when she Demands her son exiled by me? Alas! what answer shall I frame, Or how console the injured dame? She like a slave on me attends, And with a sister’s care she blends A mother’s love, a wife’s, a friend’s. In spite of all her tender care, Her noble son, her face most fair, Another queen I could prefer And for thy sake neglected her, But now, O Queen, my heart is grieved For love and care by thee received, E’en as the sickening wretch repents His dainty meal and condiments. And how will Queen Sumitrá trust The husband whom she finds unjust, Seeing my Ráma driven hence Dishonoured, and for no offence? Ah! the Videhan bride will hear A double woe, a double fear, Two whelming sorrows at one breath, Her lord’s disgrace, his father’s death. Mine aged bosom she will wring And kill me with her sorrowing, Sad as a fair nymph left to weep Deserted on Himálaya’s steep. For short will be my days, I ween, When I with mournful eyes have seen My Ráma wandering forth alone And heard dear Sítá sob and moan. Ah me! my fond belief I rue. Vile traitress, loved as good and true, As one who in his thirst has quaffed, Deceived by looks, a deadly draught. Ah! thou hast slain me, murderess, while Soothing my soul with words of guile, As the wild hunter kills the deer Lured from the brake his song to hear. Soon every honest tongue will fling Reproach on the dishonest king; The people’s scorn in every street The seller of his child will meet, And such dishonour will be mine As whelms a Bráhman drunk with wine. Ah me, for my unhappy fate, Compelled thy words to tolerate! Such woe is sent to scourge a crime Committed in some distant time. For many a day with sinful care I cherished thee, thou sin and snare, Kept thee, unwitting, like a cord Destined to bind its hapless lord. Mine hours of ease I spent with thee, Nor deemed my love my death would be, While like a heedless child I played, On a black snake my hand I laid. A cry from every mouth will burst And all the world will hold me curst, Because I saw my high-souled son Unkinged, unfathered, and undone; “The king by power of love beguiled Is weaker than a foolish child, His own beloved son to make An exile for a woman’s sake. By chaste and holy vows restrained, By reverend teachers duly trained. When he his virtue’s fruit should taste He falls by sin and woe disgraced.” Two words will all his answer be When I pronounce the stern decree, “Hence, Ráma, to the woods away,” All he will say is, I obey. O, if he would my will withstand When banished from his home and land, This were a comfort in my woe; But he will ne’er do this, I know. My Ráma to the forest fled, And curses thick upon my head, Grim Death will bear me hence away, His world-abominated prey. When I am gone and Ráma too. How wilt thou those I love pursue? What vengeful sin will be designed Against the queens I leave behind? When thou hast slain her son and me Kauśalyá soon will follow: she Will sink beneath her sorrows’ weight, And die like me disconsolate. Exist, Kaikeyí, in thy pride, And let thy heart be gratified, When thou my queens and me hast hurled, And children, to the under world. Soon wilt thou rule as empress o’er My noble house unvext before. But then to wild confusion left, Of Ráma and of me bereft. If Bharat to thy plan consent And long for Ráma’s banishment, Ne’er let his hands presume to pay The funeral honours to my clay. Vile foe, thou cause of all mine ill, Obtain at last thy cursed will. A widow soon shalt thou enjoy The sweets of empire with thy boy. O Princess, sure some evil fate First brought thee here to devastate, In whom the night of ruin lies Veiled in a consort’s fair disguise. The scorn of all and deepest shame Will long pursue my hated name, And dire disgrace on me will press, Misled by thee to wickedness. How shall my Ráma, whom, before, His elephant or chariot bore, Now with his feet, a wanderer, tread The forest wilds around him spread? How shall my son, to please whose taste, The deftest cooks, with earrings graced, With rivalry and jealous care The dainty meal and cates prepare— How shall he now his life sustain With acid fruit and woodland grain? He spends his time unvext by cares, And robes of precious texture wears: How shall he, with one garment round His limbs recline upon the ground? Whose was this plan, this cruel thought Unheard till now, with ruin fraught, To make thy son Ayodhyá’s king, And send my Ráma wandering? Shame, shame on women! Vile, untrue, Their selfish ends they still pursue. Not all of womankind I mean. But more than all this wicked queen. O worthless, cruel, selfish dame, I brought thee home, my plague and woe. What fault in me hast thou to blame, Or in my son who loves thee so? Fond wives may from their husbands flee, And fathers may their sons desert, But all the world would rave to see My Ráma touched with deadly hurt. I joy his very step to hear, As though his godlike form I viewed; And when I see my Ráma near I feel my youth again renewed. There might be life without the sun, Yea, e’en if Indra sent no rain, But, were my Ráma banished, none Would, so I think, alive remain. A foe that longs my life to take, I brought thee here my death to be, Caressed thee long, a venomed snake, And through my folly die. Ah me! Ráma and me and Lakshmaṇ slay, And then with Bharat rule the state; So bring the kingdom to decay, And fawn on those thy lord who hate, Plotter of woe, for evil bred, For such a speech why do not all Thy teeth from out thy wicked head Split in a thousand pieces fall? My Ráma’s words are ever kind, He knows not how to speak in ire: Then how canst thou presume to find A fault in him whom all admire? Yield to despair, go mad, or die, Or sink within the rifted earth; Thy fell request will I deny, Thou shamer of thy royal birth. Thy longer life I scarce can bear, Thou ruin of my home and race, Who wouldst my heart and heartstrings tear, Keen as a razor, false and base. My life is gone, why speak of joy? For what, without my son, were sweet? Spare, lady, him thou canst destroy; I pray thee as I touch thy feet.” He fell and wept with wild complaint, Heart-struck by her presumptuous speech, But could not touch, so weak and faint, The cruel feet he strove to reach.

XIII. Dasaratha’s Distress

Unworthy of his mournful fate, The mighty king, unfortunate, Lay prostrate in unseemly guise, As, banished from the blissful skies, Yayáti, in his evil day. His merit all exhausted, lay.(276) The queen, triumphant in the power Won by her beauty’s fatal dower, Still terrible and unsubdued, Her dire demand again renewed: “Great Monarch, ’twas thy boast till now To love the truth and keep the vow; Then wherefore would thy lips refuse The promised boon ’tis mine to choose?”

King Daśaratha, thus addressed, With anger raging in his breast, Sank for a while beneath the pain, Then to Kaikeyí spoke again: “Childless so long, at length I won, With mighty toil, from Heaven a son, Ráma, the mighty-armed; and how Shall I desert my darling now? A scholar wise, a hero bold, Of patient mood, with wrath controlled, How can I bid my Ráma fly, My darling of the lotus eye? In heaven itself I scarce could bear, When asking of my Ráma there, To hear the Gods his griefs declare, And O, that death would take me hence Before I wrong his innocence!”

As thus the monarch wept and wailed, And maddening grief his heart assailed, The sun had sought his resting-place, And night was closing round apace. But yet the moon-crowned night could bring No comfort to the wretched king. As still he mourned with burning sighs And fixed his gaze upon the skies: “O Night whom starry fires adorn, I long not for the coming morn. Be kind and show some mercy: see, My suppliant hands are raised to thee. Nay, rather fly with swifter pace; No longer would I see the face Of Queen Kaikeyí, cruel, dread, Who brings this woe upon mine head.” Again with suppliant hands he tried To move the queen, and wept and sighed: “To me, unhappy me, inclined To good, sweet dame, thou shouldst be kind; Whose life is well-nigh fled, who cling To thee for succour, me thy king. This, only this, is all my claim: Have mercy, O my lovely dame. None else have I to take my part, Have mercy: thou art good at heart. Hear, lady of the soft black eye, And win a name that ne’er shall die: Let Ráma rule this glorious land, The gift of thine imperial hand. O lady of the dainty waist, With eyes and lips of beauty graced, Please Ráma, me, each saintly priest, Bharat, and all from chief to least.” She heard his wild and mournful cry, She saw the tears his speech that broke, Saw her good husband’s reddened eye, But, cruel still, no word she spoke. His eyes upon her face he bent, And sought for mercy, but in vain: She claimed his darling’s banishment, He swooned upon the ground again.

XIV. Ráma Summoned

The wicked queen her speech renewed, When rolling on the earth she viewed Ikshváku’s son, Ayodhyá’s king, For his dear Ráma sorrowing: “Why, by a simple promise bound, Liest thou prostrate on the ground, As though a grievous sin dismayed Thy spirit! Why so sore afraid? Keep still thy word. The righteous deem That truth, mid duties, is supreme: And now in truth and honour’s name I bid thee own the binding claim. Śaivya, a king whom earth obeyed, Once to a hawk a promise made, Gave to the bird his flesh and bone, And by his truth made heaven his own.(277) Alarka, when a Bráhman famed For Scripture lore his promise claimed, Tore from his head his bleeding eyes And unreluctant gave the prize. His narrow bounds prescribed restrain The Rivers’ Lord, the mighty main, Who, though his waters boil and rave, Keeps faithful to the word he gave. Truth all religion comprehends, Through all the world its might extends: In truth alone is justice placed, On truth the words of God are based: A life in truth unchanging past Will bring the highest bliss at last. If thou the right would still pursue, Be constant to thy word and true: Let me thy promise fruitful see, For boons, O King, proceed from thee. Now to preserve thy righteous fame, And yielding to my earnest claim— Thrice I repeat it—send thy child, Thy Ráma, to the forest wild. But if the boon thou still deny, Before thy face, forlorn, I die.”

Thus was the helpless monarch stung By Queen Kaikeyí’s fearless tongue, As Bali strove in vain to loose His limbs from Indra’s fatal noose. Dismayed in soul and pale with fear, The monarch, like a trembling steer Between the chariot’s wheel and yoke, Again to Queen Kaikeyí spoke, With sad eyes fixt in vacant stare, Gathering courage from despair: “That hand I took, thou sinful dame, With texts, before the sacred flame, Thee and thy son, I scorn and hate, And all at once repudiate. The night is fled: the dawn is near: Soon will the holy priests be here To bid me for the rite prepare That with my son the throne will share, The preparation made to grace My Ráma in his royal place— With this, e’en this, my darling for My death the funeral flood shall pour. Thou and thy son at least forbear In offerings to my shade to share, For by the plot thy guile has laid His consecration will be stayed. This very day how shall I brook To meet each subject’s altered look? To mark each gloomy joyless brow That was so bright and glad but now?”

While thus the high-souled monarch spoke To the stern queen, the Morning broke, And holy night had slowly fled, With moon and stars engarlanded. Yet once again the cruel queen Spoke words in answer fierce and keen, Still on her evil purpose bent, Wild with her rage and eloquent: “What speech is this? Such words as these Seem sprung from poison-sown disease. Quick to thy noble Ráma send And bid him on his sire attend. When to my son the rule is given; When Ráma to the woods is driven; When not a rival copes with me, From chains of duty thou art free.”

Thus goaded, like a generous steed Urged by sharp spurs to double speed, “My senses are astray,” he cried, “And duty’s bonds my hands have tied. I long to see mine eldest son, My virtuous, my beloved one.”

And now the night had past away; Out shone the Maker of the Day, Bringing the planetary hour And moment of auspicious power. Vaśishṭha, virtuous, far renowned, Whose young disciples girt him round, With sacred things without delay Through the fair city took his way. He traversed, where the people thronged, And all for Ráma’s coming longed, The town as fair in festive show As his who lays proud cities low.(278) He reached the palace where he heard The mingled notes of many a bird, Where crowded thick high-honoured bands Of guards with truncheons in their hands. Begirt by many a sage, elate, Vaśishṭha reached the royal gate, And standing by the door he found Sumantra, for his form renowned, The king’s illustrious charioteer And noble counsellor and peer. To him well skilled in every part Of his hereditary art Vaśishṭha said: “O charioteer, Inform the king that I am here, Here ready by my side behold These sacred vessels made of gold, Which water for the rite contain From Gangá and each distant main. Here for installing I have brought The seat prescribed of fig-wood wrought, All kinds of seed and precious scent And many a gem and ornament; Grain, sacred grass, the garden’s spoil, Honey and curds and milk and oil; Eight radiant maids, the best of all War elephants that feed in stall; A four-horse car, a bow and sword. A litter, men to bear their lord; A white umbrella bright and fair That with the moon may well compare; Two chouries of the whitest hair; A golden beaker rich and rare; A bull high-humped and fair to view, Girt with gold bands and white of hue; A four-toothed steed with flowing mane, A throne which lions carved sustain; A tiger’s skin, the sacred fire, Fresh kindled, which the rites require; The best musicians skilled to play, And dancing-girls in raiment gay; Kine, Bráhmans, teachers fill the court, And bird and beast of purest sort. From town and village, far and near, The noblest men are gathered here; Here merchants with their followers crowd, And men in joyful converse loud, And kings from many a distant land To view the consecration stand. The dawn is come, the lucky day; Go bid the monarch haste away, That now Prince Ráma may obtain The empire, and begin his reign.”

Soon as he heard the high behest The driver of the chariot pressed Within the chambers of the king, His lord with praises honouring. And none of all the warders checked His entrance for their great respect Of him well known, in place so high, Still fain their king to gratify. He stood beside the royal chief, Unwitting of his deadly grief, And with sweet words began to sing The praises of his lord and king: “As, when the sun begins to rise, The sparkling sea delights our eyes, Wake, calm with gentle soul, and thus Give rapture, mighty King, to us. As Mátali(279) this selfsame hour Sang lauds of old to Indra’s power, When he the Titan hosts o’erthrew, So hymn I thee with praises due. The Vedas, with their kindred lore, Brahmá their soul-born Lord adore, With all the doctrines of the wise, And bid him, as I bid thee, rise. As, with the moon, the Lord of Day Wakes with the splendour of his ray Prolific Earth, who neath him lies, So, mighty King, I bid thee rise. With blissful words, O Lord of men, Rise, radiant in thy form, as when The sun ascending darts his light From Meru’s everlasting height. May Śiva, Agni, Sun, and Moon Bestow on thee each choicest boon, Kuvera, Varuṇa, Indra bless Kakutstha’s son with all success. Awake, the holy night is fled, The happy light abroad is spread; Awake, O best of kings, and share The glorious task that claims thy care. The holy sage Vaśishṭha waits, With all his Bráhmans, at the gate. Give thy decree, without delay, To consecrate thy son today. As armies, by no captain led, As flocks that feed unshepherded, Such is the fortune of a state Without a king and desolate.”

Such were the words the bard addressed, With weight of sage advice impressed; And, as he heard, the hapless king Felt deeper yet his sorrow’s sting. At length, all joy and comfort fled, He raised his eyes with weeping red, And, mournful for his Ráma’s sake, The good and glorious monarch spake: “Why seek with idle praise to greet The wretch for whom no praise is meet? Thy words mine aching bosom tear, And plunge me deeper in despair.”

Sumantra heard the sad reply, And saw his master’s tearful eye. With reverent palm to palm applied He drew a little space aside. Then, as the king, with misery weak, With vain endeavour strove to speak, Kaikeyí, skilled in plot and plan, To sage Sumantra thus began: “The king, absorbed in joyful thought For his dear son, no rest has sought: Sleepless to him the night has past, And now o’erwatched he sinks at last. Then go, Sumantra, and with speed The glorious Ráma hither lead: Go, as I pray, nor longer wait; No time is this to hesitate.” “How can I go, O Lady fair, Unless my lord his will declare?” “Fain would I see him,” cried the king, “Quick, quick, my beauteous Ráma bring.” Then rose the happy thought to cheer The bosom of the charioteer, “The king, I ween, of pious mind, The consecration has designed.” Sumantra for his wisdom famed, Delighted with the thought he framed, From the calm chamber, like a bay Of crowded ocean, took his way. He turned his face to neither side, But forth he hurried straight; Only a little while he eyed The guards who kept the gate. He saw in front a gathered crowd Of men of every class, Who, parting as he came, allowed The charioteer to pass.

XV. The Preparations

There slept the Bráhmans, deeply read In Scripture, till the night had fled; Then, with the royal chaplains, they Took each his place in long array. There gathered fast the chiefs of trade, Nor peer nor captain long delayed, Assembling all in order due The consecrating rite to view.

The morning dawned with cloudless ray On Pushya’s high auspicious day, And Cancer with benignant power Looked down on Ráma’s natal hour. The twice-born chiefs, with zealous heed, Made ready what the rite would need. The well-wrought throne of holy wood And golden urns in order stood. There was the royal car whereon A tiger’s skin resplendent shone; There water, brought for sprinkling thence Where, in their sacred confluence, Blend Jumná’s waves with Gangá’s tide, From many a holy flood beside, From brook and fountain far and near, From pool and river, sea and mere. And there were honey, curd, and oil, Parched rice and grass, the garden’s spoil, Fresh milk, eight girls in bright attire, An elephant with eyes of fire; And urns of gold and silver made, With milky branches overlaid, All brimming from each sacred flood, And decked with many a lotus bud. And dancing-women fair and free, Gay with their gems, were there to see, Who stood in bright apparel by With lovely brow and witching eye. White flashed the jewelled chouri there, And shone like moonbeams through the air; The white umbrella overhead A pale and moonlike lustre shed, Wont in pure splendour to precede, And in such rites the pomp to lead. There stood the charger by the side Of the great bull of snow-white hide; There was all music soft and loud, And bards and minstrels swelled the crowd. For now the monarch bade combine Each custom of his ancient line With every rite Ayodhyá’s state Observed, her kings to consecrate.

Then, summoned by the king’s behest, The multitudes together pressed, And, missing still the royal sire, Began, impatient, to inquire: “Who to our lord will tidings bear That all his people throng the square? Where is the king? the sun is bright, And all is ready for the rite.”

As thus they spoke, Sumantra, tried In counsel, to the chiefs replied, Gathered from lands on every side: “To Ráma’s house I swiftly drave, For so the king his mandate gave. Our aged lord and Ráma too In honour high hold all of you: I in your words (be long your days!) Will ask him why he thus delays.”

Thus spoke the peer in Scripture read, And to the ladies’ bower he sped. Quick through the gates Sumantra hied, Which access ne’er to him denied. Behind the curtained screen he drew, Which veiled the chamber from the view. In benediction loud he raised His voice, and thus the monarch praised: “Sun, Moon, Kuvera, Śiva bless Kakutstha’s son with high success! The Lords of air, flood, fire decree The victory, my King, to thee! The holy night has past away, Auspicious shines the morning’s ray. Rise, Lord of men, thy part to take In the great rite. Awake! awake! Bráhmans and captains, chiefs of trade, All wait in festive garb arrayed; For thee they look with eager eyes: O Raghu’s son, awake! arise.”

To him in holy Scripture read, Who hailed him thus, the monarch said, Upraising from his sleep his head: “Go, Ráma, hither lead as thou Wast ordered by the queen but now. Come, tell me why my mandate laid Upon thee thus is disobeyed. Away! and Ráma hither bring; I sleep not: make no tarrying.”

Thus gave the king command anew: Sumantra from his lord withdrew; With head in lowly reverence bent, And filled with thoughts of joy, he went. The royal street he traversed, where Waved flag and pennon to the air, And, as with joy the car he drove, He let his eyes delighted rove. On every side, where’er he came, He heard glad words, their theme the same, As in their joy the gathered folk Of Ráma and the throning spoke. Then saw he Ráma’s palace bright And vast as Mount Kailása’s height, That glorious in its beauty showed As Indra’s own supreme abode: With folding doors both high and wide; With hundred porches beautified: Where golden statues towering rose O’er gemmed and coralled porticoes. Bright like a cave in Meru’s side, Or clouds through Autumn’s sky that ride: Festooned with length of bloomy twine, Flashing with pearls and jewels’ shine, While sandal-wood and aloe lent The mingled riches of their scent; With all the odorous sweets that fill The breezy heights of Dardar’s hill. There by the gate the Sáras screamed, And shrill-toned peacocks’ plumage gleamed. Its floors with deftest art inlaid, Its sculptured wolves in gold arrayed, With its bright sheen the palace took The mind of man and chained the look, For like the sun and moon it glowed, And mocked Kuvera’s loved abode. Circling the walls a crowd he viewed Who stood in reverent attitude, With throngs of countrymen who sought Acceptance of the gifts they brought. The elephant was stationed there, Appointed Ráma’s self to bear; Adorned with pearls, his brow and cheek Were sandal-dyed in many a streak, While he, in stature, bulk, and pride, With Indra’s own Airávat(280) vied. Sumantra, borne by coursers fleet, Flashing a radiance o’er the street, To Ráma’s palace flew, And all who lined the royal road, Or thronged the prince’s rich abode, Rejoiced as near he drew. And with delight his bosom swelled As onward still his course he held Through many a sumptuous court Like Indra’s palace nobly made, Where peacocks revelled in the shade, And beasts of silvan sort. Through many a hall and chamber wide, That with Kailása’s splendour vied. Or mansions of the Blest, While Ráma’s friends, beloved and tried, Before his coming stepped aside, Still on Sumantra pressed. He reached the chamber door, where stood Around his followers young and good, Bard, minstrel, charioteer, Well skilled the tuneful chords to sweep, With soothing strain to lull to sleep, Or laud their master dear. Then, like a dolphin darting through Unfathomed depths of ocean’s blue With store of jewels decked, Through crowded halls that rock-like rose, Or as proud hills where clouds repose, Sumantra sped unchecked— Halls like the glittering domes on high Reared for the dwellers of the sky By heavenly architect.

XVI. Ráma Summoned

So through the crowded inner door Sumantra, skilled in ancient lore, On to the private chambers pressed Which stood apart from all the rest. There youthful warriors, true and bold, Whose ears were ringed with polished gold, All armed with trusty bows and darts, Watched with devoted eyes and hearts. And hoary men, a faithful train, Whose aged hands held staves of cane, The ladies’ guard, apparelled fair In red attire, were stationed there. Soon as they saw Sumantra nigh, Each longed his lord to gratify, And from his seat beside the door Up sprang each ancient servitor. Then to the warders quickly cried The skilled Sumantra, void of pride: “Tell Ráma that the charioteer Sumantra waits for audience here.” The ancient men with one accord Seeking the pleasure of their lord, Passing with speed the chamber door To Ráma’s ear the message bore. Forthwith the prince with duteous heed Called in the messenger with speed, For ’twas his sire’s command, he knew, That sent him for the interview. Like Lord Kuvera, well arrayed, He pressed a couch of gold, Wherefrom a covering of brocade Hung down in many a fold. Oil and the sandal’s fragrant dust Had tinged his body o’er Dark as the stream the spearman’s thrust Drains from the wounded boar. Him Sítá watched with tender care, A chouri in her hand, As Chitrá,(281) ever fond in fair, Beside the Moon will stand. Him glorious with unborrowed light, A liberal lord, of sunlike might, Sumantra hailed in words like these, Well skilled in gentle courtesies, As, with joined hands in reverence raised, Upon the beauteous prince he gazed: “Happy Kauśalyá! Blest is she, The Mother of a son like thee. Now rise, O Ráma, speed away. Go to thy sire without delay: For he and Queen Kaikeyí seek An interview with thee to speak.”

The lion-lord of men, the best Of splendid heroes, thus addressed, To Sítá spake with joyful cheer: “The king and queen, my lady dear, Touching the throning, for my sake Some salutary counsel take. The lady of the full black eye Would fain her husband gratify, And, all his purpose understood, Counsels the monarch to my good. A happy fate is mine, I ween, When he, consulting with his queen, Sumantra on this charge, intent Upon my gain and good, has sent. An envoy of so noble sort Well suits the splendour of the court. The consecration rite this day Will join me in imperial sway. To meet the lord of earth, for so His order bids me, I will go. Thou, lady, here in comfort stay, And with thy maidens rest or play.”

Thus Ráma spake. For meet reply The lady of the large black eye Attended to the door her lord, And blessings on his head implored: “The majesty and royal state Which holy Bráhmans venerate, The consecration and the rite Which sanctifies the ruler’s might, And all imperial powers should be Thine by thy father’s high decree, As He, the worlds who formed and planned, The kingship gave to Indra’s hand. Then shall mine eyes my king adore When lustral rites and fast are o’er, And black deer’s skin and roebuck’s horn Thy lordly limbs and hand adorn. May He whose hands the thunder wield Be in the east thy guard and shield; May Yáma’s care the south befriend, And Varuṇ’s arm the west defend; And let Kuvera, Lord of Gold, The north with firm protection hold.”

Then Ráma spoke a kind farewell, And hailed the blessings as they fell From Sítá’s gentle lips; and then, As a young lion from his den Descends the mountain’s stony side, So from the hall the hero hied. First Lakshmaṇ at the door he viewed Who stood in reverent attitude, Then to the central court he pressed Where watched the friends who loved him best. To all his dear companions there He gave kind looks and greeting fair. On to the lofty car that glowed Like fire the royal tiger strode. Bright as himself its silver shone: A tiger’s skin was laid thereon. With cloudlike thunder, as it rolled, It flashed with gems and burnished gold, And, like the sun’s meridian blaze, Blinded the eye that none could gaze. Like youthful elephants, tall and strong, Fleet coursers whirled the car along: In such a car the Thousand-eyed Borne by swift horses loves to ride. So like Parjanya,(282) when he flies Thundering through the autumn skies, The hero from the palace sped, As leaves the moon some cloud o’erhead. Still close to Ráma Lakshmaṇ kept, Behind him to the car he leapt, And, watching with fraternal care, Waved the long chouri’s silver hair, As from the palace gate he came Up rose the tumult of acclaim. While loud huzza and jubilant shout Pealed from the gathered myriads out. Then elephants, like mountains vast, And steeds who all their kind surpassed, Followed their lord by hundreds, nay By thousands, led in long array. First marched a band of warriors trained, With sandal dust and aloe stained; Well armed was each with sword and bow, And every breast with hope aglow, And ever, as they onward went, Shouts from the warrior train, And every sweet-toned instrument Prolonged the minstrel strain. On passed the tamer of his foes, While well clad dames, in crowded rows, Each chamber lattice thronged to view, And chaplets on the hero threw. Then all, of peerless face and limb, Sang Ráma’s praise for love of him, And blent their voices, soft and sweet, From palace high and crowded street: “Now, sure, Kauśalyá’s heart must swell To see the son she loves so well, Thee Ráma, thee, her joy and pride, Triumphant o’er the realm preside.” Then—for they knew his bride most fair Of all who part the soft dark hair, His love, his life, possessed the whole Of her young hero’s heart and soul:— “Be sure the lady’s fate repays Some mighty vow of ancient days,(283) For blest with Ráma’s love is she As, with the Moon’s, sweet Rohiní.”(284)

Such were the witching words that came From lips of many a peerless dame Crowding the palace roofs to greet The hero as he gained the street.

XVII. Ráma’s Approach

As Ráma, rendering blithe and gay His loving friends, pursued his way, He saw on either hand a press Of mingled people numberless. The royal street he traversed, where Incense of aloe filled the air, Where rose high palaces, that vied With paly clouds, on either side; With flowers of myriad colours graced. And food for every varied taste, Bright as the glowing path o’erhead Which feet of Gods celestial tread, Loud benedictions, sweet to hear, From countless voices soothed his ear. While he to each gave due salute His place and dignity to suit: “Be thou,” the joyful people cried, “Be thou our guardian, lord and guide. Throned and anointed king to-day, Thy feet set forth upon the way Wherein, each honoured as a God, Thy fathers and forefathers trod. Thy sire and his have graced the throne, And loving care to us have shown: Thus blest shall we and ours remain, Yea still more blest in Ráma’s reign. No more of dainty fare we need, And but one cherished object heed, That we may see our prince today Invested with imperial sway.”

Such were the words and pleasant speech That Ráma heard, unmoved, from each Of the dear friends around him spread, As onward through the street he sped, For none could turn his eye or thought From the dear form his glances sought, With fruitless ardour forward cast Even when Raghu’s son had past. And he who saw not Ráma nigh, Nor caught a look from Ráma’s eye, A mark for scorn and general blame, Reproached himself in bitter shame. For to each class his equal mind With sympathy and love inclined Most fully of the princely four, So greatest love to him they bore.

His circling course the hero bent Round shrine and altar, reverent, Round homes of Gods, where cross-roads met, Where many a sacred tree was set. Near to his father’s house he drew Like Indra’s beautiful to view, And with the light his glory gave Within the royal palace drave. Through three broad courts, where bowmen kept Their watch and ward, his coursers swept, Then through the two remaining went On foot the prince preëminent. Through all the courts the hero passed, And gained the ladies’ bower at last; Then through the door alone withdrew, And left without his retinue. When thus the monarch’s noble boy Had gone his sire to meet, The multitude, elate with joy, Stood watching in the street, And his return with eager eyes Expected at the gates, As for his darling moon to rise The King of Rivers(285) waits.

XVIII. The Sentence

With hopeless eye and pallid mien There sat the monarch with the queen. His father’s feet with reverence due He clasped, and touched Kaikeyí’s too. The king, with eyes still brimming o’er, Cried Ráma! and could do no more. His voice was choked, his eye was dim, He could not speak or look on him. Then sudden fear made Ráma shake As though his foot had roused a snake, Soon as his eyes had seen the change So mournful, terrible, and strange. For there his reason well-nigh fled, Sighing, with soul disquieted, To torturing pangs a prey, Dismayed, despairing, and distraught, In a fierce whirl of wildering thought The hapless monarch lay, Like Ocean wave-engarlanded Storm-driven from his tranquil bed, The Sun-God in eclipse, Or like a holy seer, heart-stirred With anguish, when a lying word Has passed his heedless lips. The sight of his dear father, pained With woe and misery unexplained Filled Ráma with unrest, As Ocean’s pulses rise and swell When the great moon he loves so well Shines full upon his breast. So grieving for his father’s sake, To his own heart the hero spake: “Why will the king my sire to-day No kindly word of greeting say? At other times, though wroth he be, His eyes grow calm that look on me. Then why does anguish wring his brow To see his well-beloved now?” Sick and perplexed, distraught with woe, To Queen Kaikeyí bowing low, While pallor o’er his bright cheek spread, With humble reverence he said: “What have I done, unknown, amiss To make my father wroth like this? Declare it, O dear Queen, and win His pardon for my heedless sin. Why is the sire I ever find Filled with all love to-day unkind? With eyes cast down and pallid cheek This day alone he will not speak. Or lies he prostrate neath the blow Of fierce disease or sudden woe? For all our bliss is dashed with pain, And joy unmixt is hard to gain. Does stroke of evil fortune smite Dear Bharat, charming to the sight, Or on the brave Śatrughna fall, Or consorts, for he loves them all? Against his words when I rebel, Or fail to please the monarch well, When deeds of mine his soul offend, That hour I pray my life may end. How should a man to him who gave His being and his life behave? The sire to whom he owes his birth Should be his deity on earth. Hast thou, by pride and folly moved, With bitter taunt the king reproved? Has scorn of thine or cruel jest To passion stirred his gentle breast? Speak truly, Queen, that I may know What cause has changed the monarch so.”

Thus by the high-souled prince addressed, Of Raghu’s sons the chief and best, She cast all ruth and shame aside, And bold with greedy words replied: “Not wrath, O Ráma, stirs the king, Nor misery stabs with sudden sting; One thought that fills his soul has he, But dares not speak for fear of thee. Thou art so dear, his lips refrain From words that might his darling pain. But thou, as duty bids, must still The promise of thy sire fulfil. He who to me in days gone by Vouchsafed a boon with honours high, Dares now, a king, his word regret, And caitiff-like disowns the debt. The lord of men his promise gave To grant the boon that I might crave, And now a bridge would idly throw When the dried stream has ceased to flow. His faith the monarch must not break In wrath, or e’en for thy dear sake. From faith, as well the righteous know, Our virtue and our merits flow. Now, be they good or be they ill, Do thou thy father’s words fulfil: Swear that his promise shall not fail, And I will tell thee all the tale. Yes, Ráma, when I hear that thou Hast bound thee by thy father’s vow, Then, not till then, my lips shall speak, Nor will he tell what boon I seek.”

He heard, and with a troubled breast This answer to the queen addressed: “Ah me, dear lady, canst thou deem That words like these thy lips beseem? I, at the bidding of my sire, Would cast my body to the fire, A deadly draught of poison drink, Or in the waves of ocean sink: If he command, it shall be done,— My father and my king in one. Then speak and let me know the thing So longed for by my lord the king. It shall be done: let this suffice; Ráma ne’er makes a promise twice.”

He ended. To the princely youth Who loved the right and spoke the truth, Cruel, abominable came The answer of the ruthless dame: “When Gods and Titans fought of yore, Transfixed with darts and bathed in gore Two boons to me thy father gave For the dear life ’twas mine to save. Of him I claim the ancient debt, That Bharat on the throne be set, And thou, O Ráma, go this day To Daṇḍak forest far away. Now, Ráma, if thou wilt maintain Thy father’s faith without a stain, And thine own truth and honour clear, Then, best of men, my bidding hear. Do thou thy father’s word obey, Nor from the pledge he gave me stray. Thy life in Daṇḍak forest spend Till nine long years and five shall end. Upon my Bharat’s princely head Let consecrating drops be shed, With all the royal pomp for thee Made ready by the king’s decree. Seek Daṇḍak forest and resign Rites that would make the empire thine, For twice seven years of exile wear The coat of bark and matted hair. Then in thy stead let Bharat reign Lord of his royal sire’s domain, Rich in the fairest gems that shine, Cars, elephants, and steeds, and kine. The monarch mourns thy altered fate And vails his brow compassionate: Bowed down by bitter grief he lies And dares not lift to thine his eyes. Obey his word: be firm and brave, And with great truth the monarch save.” While thus with cruel words she spoke, No grief the noble youth betrayed; But forth the father’s anguish broke, At his dear Ráma’s lot dismayed.

XIX. Ráma’s Promise

Calm and unmoved by threatened woe The noble conqueror of the foe Answered the cruel words she spoke, Nor quailed beneath the murderous stroke:

“Yea, for my father’s promise sake I to the wood my way will take, And dwell a lonely exile there In hermit dress with matted hair. One thing alone I fain would learn, Why is the king this day so stern? Why is the scourge of foes so cold, Nor gives me greeting as of old? Now let not anger flush thy cheek: Before thy face the truth I speak, In hermit’s coat with matted hair To the wild wood will I repair. How can I fail his will to do, Friend, master, grateful sovereign too? One only pang consumes my breast: That his own lips have not expressed His will, nor made his longing known That Bharat should ascend the throne. To Bharat I would yield my wife, My realm and wealth, mine own dear life, Unasked I fain would yield them all: More gladly at my father’s call, More gladly when the gift may free His honour and bring joy to thee. Thus, lady, his sad heart release From the sore shame, and give him peace. But tell me, O, I pray thee, why The lord of men, with downcast eye, Lies prostrate thus, and one by one Down his pale cheek the tear-drops run. Let couriers to thy father speed On horses of the swiftest breed, And, by the mandate of the king, Thy Bharat to his presence bring. My father’s words I will not stay To question, but this very day To Daṇḍak’s pathless wild will fare, For twice seven years an exile there.”

When Ráma thus had made reply Kaikeyí’s heart with joy beat high. She, trusting to the pledge she held, The youth’s departure thus impelled: “’Tis well. Be messengers despatched On coursers ne’er for fleetness matched, To seek my father’s home and lead My Bharat back with all their speed. And, Ráma, as I ween that thou Wilt scarce endure to linger now, So surely it were wise and good This hour to journey to the wood. And if, with shame cast down and weak, No word to thee the king can speak, Forgive, and from thy mind dismiss A trifle in an hour like this. But till thy feet in rapid haste Have left the city for the waste, And to the distant forest fled, He will not bathe nor call for bread.”

“Woe! woe!” from the sad monarch burst, In surging floods of grief immersed; Then swooning, with his wits astray, Upon the gold-wrought couch he lay, And Ráma raised the aged king: But the stern queen, unpitying, Checked not her needless words, nor spared The hero for all speed prepared, But urged him with her bitter tongue, Like a good horse with lashes stung, She spoke her shameful speech. Serene He heard the fury of the queen, And to her words so vile and dread Gently, unmoved in mind, he said: “I would not in this world remain A grovelling thrall to paltry gain, But duty’s path would fain pursue, True as the saints themselves are true. From death itself I would not fly My father’s wish to gratify, What deed soe’er his loving son May do to please him, think it done. Amid all duties, Queen, I count This duty first and paramount, That sons, obedient, aye fulfil Their honoured fathers’ word and will. Without his word, if thou decree, Forth to the forest will I flee, And there shall fourteen years be spent Mid lonely wilds in banishment. Methinks thou couldst not hope to find One spark of virtue in my mind, If thou, whose wish is still my lord, Hast for this grace the king implored. This day I go, but, ere we part, Must cheer my Sítá’s tender heart, To my dear mother bid farewell; Then to the woods, a while to dwell. With thee, O Queen, the care must rest That Bharat hear his sire’s behest, And guard the land with righteous sway, For such the law that lives for aye.”

In speechless woe the father heard, Wept with loud cries, but spoke no word. Then Ráma touched his senseless feet, And hers, for honour most unmeet; Round both his circling steps he bent, Then from the bower the hero went. Soon as he reached the gate he found His dear companions gathered round. Behind him came Sumitrá’s child With weeping eyes so sad and wild. Then saw he all that rich array Of vases for the glorious day. Round them with reverent stops he paced, Nor vailed his eye, nor moved in haste. The loss of empire could not dim The glory that encompassed him. So will the Lord of Cooling Rays(286) On whom the world delights to gaze, Through the great love of all retain Sweet splendour in the time of wane. Now to the exile’s lot resigned He left the rule of earth behind: As though all worldly cares he spurned No trouble was in him discerned. The chouries that for kings are used, And white umbrella, he refused, Dismissed his chariot and his men, And every friend and citizen. He ruled his senses, nor betrayed The grief that on his bosom weighed, And thus his mother’s mansion sought To tell the mournful news he brought. Nor could the gay-clad people there Who flocked round Ráma true and fair, One sign of altered fortune trace Upon the splendid hero’s face. Nor had the chieftain, mighty-armed, Lost the bright look all hearts that charmed, As e’en from autumn moons is thrown A splendour which is all their own. With his sweet voice the hero spoke Saluting all the gathered folk, Then righteous-souled and great in fame Close to his mother’s house he came. Lakshmaṇ the brave, his brother’s peer In princely virtues, followed near, Sore troubled, but resolved to show No token of his secret woe. Thus to the palace Ráma went Where all were gay with hope and joy; But well he knew the dire event That hope would mar, that bliss destroy. So to his grief he would not yield Lest the sad change their hearts might rend, And, the dread tiding unrevealed, Spared from the blow each faithful friend.

XX. Kausalyá’s Lament

But in the monarch’s palace, when Sped from the bower that lord of men, Up from the weeping women went A mighty wail and wild lament: “Ah, he who ever freely did His duty ere his sire could bid, Our refuge and our sure defence, This day will go an exile hence, He on Kauśalyá loves to wait Most tender and affectionate, And as he treats his mother, thus From childhood has he treated us. On themes that sting he will not speak, And when reviled is calm and meek. He soothes the angry, heals offence: He goes to-day an exile hence. Our lord the king is most unwise, And looks on life with doting eyes, Who in his folly casts away The world’s protection, hope, and stay.”

Thus in their woe, like kine bereaved Of their young calves,(287) the ladies grieved, And ever as they wept and wailed With keen reproach the king assailed. Their lamentation, mixed with tears, Smote with new grief the monarch’s ears, Who, burnt with woe too great to bear, Fell on his couch and fainted there.

Then Ráma, smitten with the pain His heaving heart could scarce restrain, Groaned like an elephant and strode With Lakshmaṇ to the queen’s abode. A warder there, whose hoary eld In honour high by all was held, Guarding the mansion, sat before The portal, girt with many more. Swift to their feet the warders sprang, And loud the acclamation rang, Hail, Ráma! as to him they bent, Of victor chiefs preëminent. One court he passed, and in the next Saw, masters of each Veda text, A crowd of Bráhmans, good and sage, Dear to the king for lore and age. To these he bowed his reverent head, Thence to the court beyond he sped. Old dames and tender girls, their care To keep the doors, were stationed there. And all, when Ráma came in view, Delighted to the chamber flew, To bear to Queen Kauśalyá’s ear The tidings that she loved to hear. The queen, on rites and prayer intent, In careful watch the night had spent, And at the dawn, her son to aid, To Vishṇu holy offerings made. Firm in her vows, serenely glad, In robes of spotless linen clad, As texts prescribe, with grace implored, Her offerings in the fire she poured. Within her splendid bower he came, And saw her feed the sacred flame. There oil, and grain, and vases stood, With wreaths, and curds, and cates, and wood, And milk, and sesamum, and rice, The elements of sacrifice. She, worn and pale with many a fast And midnight hours in vigil past, In robes of purest white arrayed, To Lakshmí Queen drink-offerings paid. So long away, she flew to meet The darling of her soul: So runs a mare with eager feet To welcome back her foal. He with his firm support upheld The queen, as near she drew, And, by maternal love impelled, Her arms around him threw. Her hero son, her matchless boy She kissed upon the head: She blessed him in her pride and joy With tender words, and said: “Be like thy royal sires of old, The nobly good, the lofty-souled! Their lengthened days and fame be thine, And virtue, as beseems thy line! The pious king, thy father, see True to his promise made to thee: That truth thy sire this day will show, And regent’s power on thee bestow.”

She spoke. He took the proffered seat, And as she pressed her son to eat, Raised reverent bands, and, touched with shame, Made answer to the royal dame: “Dear lady, thou hast yet to know That danger threats, and heavy woe: A grief that will with sore distress On Sítá, thee, and Lakshmaṇ press. What need of seats have such as I? This day to Daṇḍak wood I fly. The hour is come, a time, unmeet For silken couch and gilded seat. I must to lonely wilds repair, Abstain from flesh, and living there On roots, fruit, honey, hermit’s food, Pass twice seven years in solitude. To Bharat’s hand the king will yield The regent power I thought to wield, And me, a hermit, will he send My days in Daṇḍak wood to spend.”

As when the woodman’s axe has lopped A Śal branch in the grove, she dropped: So from the skies a Goddess falls Ejected from her radiant halls.

When Ráma saw her lying low, Prostrate by too severe a blow, Around her form his arms he wound And raised her fainting from the ground. His hand upheld her like a mare Who feels her load too sore to bear, And sinks upon the way o’ertoiled, And all her limbs with dust are soiled. He soothed her in her wild distress With loving touch and soft caress. She, meet for highest fortune, eyed The hero watching by her side, And thus, while Lakshmaṇ bent to hear, Addressed her son with many a tear! “If, Ráma, thou had ne’er been born My child to make thy mother mourn, Though reft of joy, a childless queen, Such woe as this I ne’er had seen. Though to the childless wife there clings One sorrow armed with keenest stings, “No child have I: no child have I,” No second misery prompts the sigh. When long I sought, alas, in vain, My husband’s love and bliss to gain, In Ráma all my hopes I set And dreamed I might be happy yet. I, of the consorts first and best, Must bear my rivals’ taunt and jest, And brook, though better far than they, The soul distressing words they say. What woman can be doomed to pine In misery more sore than mine, Whose hopeless days must still be spent In grief that ends not and lament? They scorned me when my son was nigh; When he is banished I must die. Me, whom my husband never prized, Kaikeyí’s retinue despised With boundless insolence, though she Tops not in rank nor equals me. And they who do me service yet, Nor old allegiance quite forget, Whene’er they see Kaikeyí’s son, With silent lips my glances shun. How, O my darling, shall I brook Each menace of Kaikeyí’s look, And listen, in my low estate, To taunts of one so passionate? For seventeen years since thou wast born I sat and watched, ah me, forlorn! Hoping some blessed day to see Deliverance from my woes by thee. Now comes this endless grief and wrong, So dire I cannot bear it long, Sinking, with age and sorrow worn, Beneath my rivals’ taunts and scorn. How shall I pass in dark distress My long lone days of wretchedness Without my Ráma’s face, as bright As the full moon to cheer my sight? Alas, my cares thy steps to train, And fasts, and vows, and prayers are vain. Hard, hard, I ween, must be this heart To hear this blow nor burst apart, As some great river bank, when first The floods of Rain-time on it burst. No, Fate that speeds not will not slay, Nor Yama’s halls vouchsafe me room, Or, like a lion’s weeping prey, Death now had borne me to my doom. Hard is my heart and wrought of steel That breaks not with the crushing blow, Or in the pangs this day I feel My lifeless frame had sunk below. Death waits his hour, nor takes me now: But this sad thought augments my pain, That prayer and largess, fast and vow, And Heavenward service are in vain. Ah me, ah me! with fruitless toil Of rites austere a child I sought: Thus seed cast forth on barren soil Still lifeless lies and comes to naught. If ever wretch by anguish grieved Before his hour to death had fled, I mourning, like a cow bereaved, Had been this day among the dead.”

XXI. Kausalyá Calmed

While thus Kauśalyá wept and sighed, With timely words sad Lakshmaṇ cried: “O honoured Queen I like it ill That, subject to a woman’s will, Ráma his royal state should quit And to an exile’s doom submit. The aged king, fond, changed, and weak, Will as the queen compels him speak. But why should Ráma thus be sent To the wild woods in banishment? No least offence I find in him, I see no fault his fame to dim. Not one in all the world I know, Not outcast wretch, not secret foe, Whose whispering lips would dare assail His spotless life with slanderous tale. Godlike and bounteous, just, sincere, E’en to his very foemen dear: Who would without a cause neglect The right, and such a son reject? And if a king such order gave, In second childhood, passion’s slave, What son within his heart would lay The senseless order, and obey? Come, Ráma, ere this plot be known Stand by me and secure the throne. Stand like the King who rules below, Stand aided by thy brother’s bow: How can the might of meaner men Resist thy royal purpose then? My shafts, if rebels court their fate, Shall lay Ayodhyá desolate. Then shall her streets with blood be dyed Of those who stand on Bharat’s side: None shall my slaughtering hand exempt, For gentle patience earns contempt. If, by Kaikeyí’s counsel changed, Our father’s heart be thus estranged, No mercy must our arm restrain, But let the foe be slain, be slain. For should the guide, respected long, No more discerning right and wrong, Turn in forbidden paths to stray, ’Tis meet that force his steps should stay. What power sufficient can he see, What motive for the wish has he, That to Kaikeyí would resign The empire which is justly thine? Can he, O conqueror of thy foes, Thy strength and mine in war oppose? Can he entrust, in our despite, To Bharat’s hand thy royal right? I love this brother with the whole Affection of my faithful soul. Yea Queen, by bow and truth I swear, By sacrifice, and gift, and prayer, If Ráma to the forest goes, Or where the burning furnace glows, First shall my feet the forest tread, The flames shall first surround my head. My might shall chase thy grief and tears, As darkness flies when morn appears. Do thou, dear Queen, and Ráma too Behold what power like mine can do. My aged father I will kill, The vassal of Kaikeyí’s will, Old, yet a child, the woman’s thrall, Infirm, and base, the scorn of all.”

Thus Lakshmaṇ cried, the mighty-souled: Down her sad cheeks the torrents rolled, As to her son Kauśalyá spake:

“Now thou hast heard thy brother, take His counsel if thou hold it wise, And do the thing his words advise, Do not, my son, with tears I pray, My rival’s wicked word obey, Leave me not here consumed with woe, Nor to the wood, an exile, go. If thou, to virtue ever true, Thy duty’s path would still pursue, The highest duty bids thee stay And thus thy mother’s voice obey. Thus Kaśyap’s great ascetic son A seat among the Immortals won: In his own home, subdued, he stayed, And honour to his mother paid. If reverence to thy sire be due, Thy mother claims like honour too, And thus I charge thee, O my child, Thou must not seek the forest wild. Ah, what to me were life and bliss, Condemned my darling son to miss? But with my Ráma near, to eat The very grass itself were sweet. But if thou still wilt go and leave Thy hapless mother here to grieve, I from that hour will food abjure, Nor life without my son endure. Then it will be thy fate to dwell In depth of world-detested hell. As Ocean in the olden time Was guilty of an impious crime That marked the lord of each fair flood As one who spills a Bráhman’s blood.”(288)

Thus spake the queen, and wept, and sighed: Then righteous Ráma thus replied: “I have no power to slight or break Commandments which my father spake. I bend my head, dear lady, low, Forgive me, for I needs must go. Once Kaṇdu, mighty saint, who made His dwelling in the forest shade, A cow—and duty’s claims he knew— Obedient to his father, slew. And in the line from which we spring, When ordered by their sire the king, Through earth the sons of Sagar cleft, And countless things of life bereft.(289) So Jamadagní’s son(290) obeyed His sire, when in the wood he laid His hand upon his axe, and smote Through Renuká his mother’s throat. The deeds of these and more beside. Peers of the Gods, my steps shall guide, And resolute will I fulfil My father’s word, my father’s will. Nor I, O Queen, unsanctioned tread This righteous path, by duty led: The road my footsteps journey o’er Was traversed by the great of yore. This high command which all accept Shall faithfully by me be kept, For duty ne’er will him forsake Who fears his sire’s command to break.”

Thus to his mother wild with grief: Then thus to Lakshmaṇ spake the chief Of those by whom the bow is bent, Mid all who speak, most eloquent: “I know what love for me thou hast, What firm devotion unsurpassed: Thy valour and thy worth I know, And glory that appals the foe. Blest youth, my mother’s woe is great, It bends her ’neath its matchless weight: No claims will she, with blinded eyes, Of truth and patience recognize. For duty is supreme in place, And truth is duty’s noblest base. Obedient to my sire’s behest I serve the cause of duty best. For man should truly do whate’er To mother, Bráhman, sire, he sware: He must in duty’s path remain, Nor let his word be pledged in vain. And, O my brother, how can I Obedience to this charge deny? Kaikeyí’s tongue my purpose spurred, But ’twas my sire who gave the word. Cast these unholy thoughts aside Which smack of war and Warriors’ pride; To duty’s call, not wrath attend, And tread the path which I commend.”

Ráma by fond affection moved His brother Lakshmaṇ thus reproved; Then with joined hands and reverent head Again to Queen Kauśalyá said:

“I needs must go—do thou consent— To the wild wood in banishment. O give me, by my life I pray, Thy blessing ere I go away. I, when the promised years are o’er, Shall see Ayodhyá’s town once more. Then, mother dear, thy tears restrain, Nor let thy heart be wrung by pain: In time, my father’s will obeyed, Shall I return from greenwood shade. My dear Videhan, thou, and I, Lakshmaṇ, Sumitrá, feel this tie, And must my father’s word obey, As duty bids that rules for aye. Thy preparations now forgo, And lock within thy breast thy woe, Nor be my pious wish withstood To go an exile to the wood.”

Calm and unmoved the prince explained His duty’s claim and purpose high, The mother life and sense regained, Looked on her son and made reply: “If reverence be thy father’s due, The same by right and love is mine: Go not, my charge I thus renew, Nor leave me here in woe to pine, What were such lonely life to me, Rites to the shades, or deathless lot? More dear, my son, one hour with thee Than all the world where thou art not.” As bursts to view, when brands blaze high, Some elephant concealed by night, So, when he heard his mother’s cry, Burnt Ráma’s grief with fiercer might. Thus to the queen, half senseless still, And Lakshmaṇ, burnt with heart-felt pain, True to the right, with steadfast will, His duteous speech he spoke again: “Brother, I know thy loving mind, Thy valour and thy truth I know, But now to claims of duty blind Thou and my mother swell my woe. The fruits of deeds in human life Make love, gain, duty, manifest, Dear when they meet as some fond wife With her sweet babes upon her breast. But man to duty first should turn Whene’er the three are not combined: For those who heed but gain we spurn, And those to pleasure all resigned. Shall then the virtuous disobey Hosts of an aged king and sire, Though feverous joy that father sway, Or senseless love or causeless ire? I have no power, commanded thus, To slight his promise and decree: The honoured sire of both of us, My mother’s lord and life is he. Shall she, while yet the holy king Is living, on the right intent,— Shall she, like some poor widowed thing, Go forth with me to banishment? Now, mother, speed thy parting son, And let thy blessing soothe my pain, That I may turn, mine exile done, Like King Yayáti, home again. Fair glory and the fruit she gives, For lust of sway I ne’er will slight: What, for the span a mortal lives. Were rule of faith without the right?” He soothed her thus, firm to the last His counsel to his brother told: Then round the queen in reverence passed, And held her in his loving hold.

XXII. Lakshman Calmed

So Ráma kept unshaken still His noble heart with iron will. To his dear brother next he turned, Whose glaring eyes with fury burned, Indignant, panting like a snake, And thus again his counsel spake: “Thine anger and thy grief restrain, And firm in duty’s path remain. Dear brother, lay thy scorn aside, And be the right thy joy and pride. Thy ready zeal and thoughtful care To aid what rites should grace the heir,— These ’tis another’s now to ask; Come, gird thee for thy noble task, That Bharat’s throning rites may he Graced with the things prepared for me. And with thy gentle care provide That her fond heart, now sorely tried With fear and longing for my sake, With doubt and dread may never ache. To know that thoughts of coming ill One hour that tender bosom fill With agony and dark despair Is grief too great for me to bear. I cannot, brother, call to mind One wilful fault or undesigned, When I have pained in anything My mothers or my sire the king. The right my father keeps in view, In promise, word, and action true; Let him then all his fear dismiss, Nor dread the loss of future bliss. He fears his truth herein will fail: Hence bitter thoughts his heart assail. He trembles lest the rites proceed, And at his pangs my heart should bleed. So now this earnest wish is mine, The consecration to resign, And from this city turn away To the wild wood with no delay. My banishment to-day will free Kaikeyí from her cares, that she, At last contented and elate, May Bharat’s throning celebrate. Then will the lady’s trouble cease, Then will her heart have joy and peace, When wandering in the wood I wear Deerskin, and bark, and matted hair. Nor shall by me his heart be grieved Whose choice approved, whose mind conceived This counsel which I follow. No, Forth to the forest will I go. ’Tis Fate, Sumitrás son, confess, That sends me to the wilderness. ’Tis Fate alone that gives away To other hands the royal sway. How could Kaikeyí’s purpose bring On me this pain and suffering, Were not her change of heart decreed By Fate whose will commands the deed? I know my filial love has been The same throughout for every queen, And with the same affection she Has treated both her son and me. Her shameful words of cruel spite To stay the consecrating rite, And drive me banished from the throne,— These I ascribe to Fate alone, How could she, born of royal race, Whom nature decks with fairest grace, Speak like a dame of low degree Before the king to torture me? But Fate, which none may comprehend, To which all life must bow and bend, In her and me its power has shown, And all my hopes are overthrown. What man, Sumitrá’s darling, may Contend with Fate’s resistless sway, Whose all-commanding power we find Our former deeds alone can bind? Our life and death, our joy and pain, Anger and fear, and loss and gain, Each thing that is, in every state, All is the work of none but Fate. E’en saints, inspired with rigid zeal, When once the stroke of Fate they feel, In sternest vows no more engage, And fall enslaved by love and rage. So now the sudden stroke whose weight Descends unlooked for, comes of Fate, And with unpitying might destroys The promise of commencing joys. Weigh this true counsel in thy soul: With thy firm heart thy heart control; Then, brother, thou wilt cease to grieve For hindered rites which now I leave. So cast thy needless grief away, And strictly my commands obey. Those preparations check with speed, Nor let my throning rites proceed. Those urns that stand prepared to shed King-making drops upon my head, Shall, with their pure lustrations now Inaugurate my hermit’s vow. Yet what have I to do with things That touch the state and pomp of kings? These hands of mine shall water take To sanctify the vow I make. Now Lakshmaṇ, let thy heart no more My fortune changed and lost deplore. A forest life more joys may bring Than those that wait upon a king, Now though her arts successful mar My consecrating rite, Let not the youngest queen too far Thy jealous fear excite. Nor let one thought suggesting ill Upon our father fall, But let thy heart remember still That Fate is lord of all.”

XXIII. Lakshman’s Anger

Thus Ráma to his brother said; And Lakshmaṇ bent his drooping head. In turns by grief and pride impelled, A middle course of thought he held, Then in a frown of anger, bent His brows that chief most excellent, And like a serpent in his hole, Breathed fierce and fast in wrath of soul. His threatening brows so darkly frowned, His eyes so fiercely glanced around, They made his glare, which none might brook, Like some infuriate lion’s look. Like some wild elephant, full oft He raised and shook his hand(291) aloft. Now turned his neck to left and right Now bent, now raised its stately height. Now in his rage that sword he felt Which mangling wounds to foemen dealt, With sidelong glance his brother eyed, And thus in burning words replied: “Thy rash resolve, thy eager haste, Thy mighty fear, are all misplaced: No room is here for duty’s claim, No cause to dread the people’s blame. Can one as brave as thou consent To use a coward’s argument? The glory of the Warrior race With craven speech his lips debase? Can one like thee so falsely speak, Exalting Fate, confessed so weak? Canst thou, undoubting still restrain? Suspicions of those sinful twain? Canst thou, most duteous, fail to know Their hearts are set on duty’s show? They with deceit have set their trains, And now the fruit rewards their pains. Had they not long ago agreed, O Ráma, on this treacherous deed, That promised boon, so long retained, He erst had given and she had gained. I cannot, O my brother, bear To see another throned as heir With rites which all our people hate: Then, O, this passion tolerate. This vaunted duty which can guide Thy steps from wisdom’s path aside, And change the counsel of thy breast, O lofty-hearted, I detest. Wilt thou, when power and might are thine, Submit to this abhorred design? Thy father’s impious hest fulfil, That vassal of Kaikeyí’s will? But if thou still wilt shut thine eyes, Nor see the guile herein that lies, My soul is sad, I deeply mourn, And duty seems a thing to scorn. Canst thou one moment think to please This pair who live for love and ease, And ’gainst thy peace, as foes, allied, With tenderest names their hatred hide? Now if thy judgment still refers To Fate this plot of his and hers, My mind herein can ne’er agree: And O, in this be ruled by me. Weak, void of manly pride are they Who bend to Fate’s imputed sway: The choicest souls, the nobly great Disdain to bow their heads to Fate. And he who dares his Fate control With vigorous act and manly soul, Though threatening Fate his hopes assail, Unmoved through all need never quail. This day mankind shall learn aright The power of Fate and human might, So shall the gulf that lies between A man and Fate be clearly seen. The might of Fate subdued by me This hour the citizens shall see, Who saw its intervention stay Thy consecrating rites to-day. My power shall turn this Fate aside, That threatens, as, with furious stride, An elephant who scorns to feel, In rage unchecked, the driver’s steel. Not the great Lords whose sleepless might Protects the worlds, shall stay the rite Though earth, hell, heaven combine their powers: And shall we fear this sire of ours? Then if their minds are idly bent To doom thee, King, to banishment, Through twice seven years of exile they Shall in the lonely forest stay. I will consume the hopes that fire The queen Kaikeyí and our sire, That to her son this check will bring Advantage, making Bharat king. The power of Fate will ne’er withstand The might that arms my vigorous hand; If danger and distress assail, My fearless strength will still prevail. A thousand circling years shall flee: The forest then thy home shall be, And thy good sons, succeeding, hold The empire which their sire controlled. The royal saints, of old who reigned, For aged kings this rest ordained: These to their sons their realm commit That they, like sires, may cherish it. O pious soul, if thou decline The empire which is justly thine, Lest, while the king distracted lies, Disorder in the state should rise, I,—or no mansion may I find In worlds to hero souls assigned,— The guardian of thy realm will be, As the sea-bank protects the sea. Then cast thine idle fears aside: With prosperous rites be sanctified. The lords of earth may strive in vain: My power shall all their force restrain. My pair of arms, my warrior’s bow Are not for pride or empty show: For no support these shafts were made; And binding up ill suits my blade: To pierce the foe with deadly breach— This is the work of all and each. But small, methinks the love I show For him I count my mortal foe. Soon as my trenchant steel is bare, Flashing its lightning through the air, I heed no foe, nor stand aghast Though Indra’s self the levin cast. Then shall the ways be hard to pass, Where chariots lie in ruinous mass; When elephant and man and steed Crushed in the murderous onslaught bleed, And legs and heads fall, heap on heap, Beneath my sword’s tremendous sweep. Struck by my keen brand’s trenchant blade, Thine enemies shall fall dismayed, Like towering mountains rent in twain, Or lightning clouds that burst in rain. When armed with brace and glove I stand, And take my trusty bow in hand, Who then shall vaunt his might? who dare Count him a man to meet me there? Then will I loose my shafts, and strike Man, elephant, and steed alike: At one shall many an arrow fly, And many a foe with one shall die. This day the world my power shall see, That none in arms can rival me: My strength the monarch shall abase, And set thee, lord, in lordliest place. These arms which breathe the sandal’s scent, Which golden bracelets ornament, These hands which precious gifts bestow, Which guard the friend and smite the foe, A nobler service shall assay, And fight in Ráma’s cause to-day, The robbers of thy rights to stay. Speak, brother, tell thy foeman’s name Whom I, in conquering strife, May strip of followers and fame, Of fortune, or of life. Say, how may all this sea-girt land Be brought to own thy sway: Thy faithful servant here I stand To listen and obey.” Then strove the bride of Raghu’s race Sad Lakshmaṇ’s heart to cheer, While slowly down the hero’s face, Unchecked, there rolled a tear. “The orders of my sire,” he cried, “My will shall ne’er oppose: I follow still, whate’er betide, The path which duty shows.”

XXIV. Kausalyá Calmed

But when Kauśalyásaw that he Resolved to keep his sire’s decree, While tears and sobs her utterance broke, Her very righteous speech she spoke: “Can he, a stranger yet to pain, Whose pleasant words all hearts enchain, Son of the king and me the queen, Live on the grain his hands may glean; Can he, whose slaves and menials eat The finest cakes of sifted wheat— Can Ráma in the forest live On roots and fruit which woodlands give; Who will believe, who will not fear When the sad story smites his ear, That one so dear, so noble held, Is by the king his sire expelled? Now surely none may Fate resist, Which orders all as it may list, If, Ráma, in thy strength and grace, The woods become thy dwelling-place. A childless mother long I grieved, And many a sigh for offspring heaved, With wistful longing weak and worn Till thou at last, my son, wast born. Fanned by the storm of that desire Deep in my soul I felt the fire, Whose offerings flowed from weeping eyes, With fuel fed of groans and sighs, While round the flame the smoke grew hot Of tears because thou camest not. Now reft of thee, too fiery fierce The flame of woe my heart will pierce, As, when the days of spring return, The sun’s hot beams the forest burn. The mother cow still follows near The wanderings of her youngling dear. So close to thine my feet shall be, Where’er thou goest following thee.”

Ráma, the noblest lord of men, Heard his fond mother’s speech, and then In soothing words like these replied To the sad queen who wept and sighed: “Nay, by Kaikeyí’s art beguiled, When I am banished to the wild, If thou, my mother, also fly, The aged king will surely die. When wedded dames their lords forsake, Long for the crime their souls shall ache. Thou must not e’en in thought within Thy bosom frame so dire a sin. Long as Kakutstha’s son, who reigns Lord of the earth, in life remains, Thou must with love his will obey: This duty claims, supreme for aye. Yes, mother, thou and I must be Submissive to my sire’s decree, King, husband, sire is he confessed, The lord of all, the worthiest. I in the wilds my days will spend Till twice seven years have reached an end, Then with great joy will come again, And faithful to thy hests remain.”

Kauśalyá by her son addressed, With love and passion sore distressed, Afflicted, with her eyes bedewed, To Ráma thus her speech renewed: “Nay, Ráma, but my heart will break If with these queens my home I make. Lead me too with thee; let me go And wander like a woodland roe.” Then, while no tear the hero shed, Thus to the weeping queen he said: “Mother, while lives the husband, he Is woman’s lord and deity. O dearest lady, thou and I Our lord and king must ne’er deny; The lord of earth himself have we Our guardian wise and friend to be. And Bharat, true to duty’s call, Whose sweet words take the hearts of all, Will serve thee well, and ne’er forget The virtuous path before him set. Be this, I pray, thine earnest care, That the old king my father ne’er, When I have parted hence, may know, Grieved for his son, a pang of woe. Let not this grief his soul distress, To kill him with the bitterness. With duteous care, in every thing, Love, comfort, cheer the aged king. Though, best of womankind, a spouse Keeps firmly all her fasts and vows, Nor yet her husband’s will obeys, She treads in sin’s forbidden ways. She to her husband’s will who bends, Goes to high bliss that never ends, Yea, though the Gods have found in her No reverential worshipper. Bent on his weal, a woman still Must seek to do her husband’s will: For Scripture, custom, law uphold This duty Heaven revealed of old. Honour true Bráhmans for my sake, And constant offerings duly make, With fire-oblations and with flowers, To all the host of heavenly powers. Look to the coming time, and yearn For the glad hour of my return. And still thy duteous course pursue, Abstemious, humble, kind, and true. The highest bliss shalt thou obtain When I from exile come again, If, best of those who keep the right, The king my sire still see the light.”

The queen, by Ráma thus addressed, Still with a mother’s grief oppressed, While her long eyes with tears were dim, Began once more and answered him: “Not by my pleading may be stayed The firm resolve thy soul has made. My hero, thou wilt go; and none The stern commands of Fate may shun. Go forth, dear child whom naught can bend, And may all bliss thy steps attend. Thou wilt return, and that dear day Will chase mine every grief away. Thou wilt return, thy duty done, Thy vows discharged, high glory won; From filial debt wilt thou be free, And sweetest joy will come on me. My son, the will of mighty Fate At every time must dominate, If now it drives thee hence to stray Heedless of me who bid thee stay. Go, strong of arm, go forth, my boy, Go forth, again to come with joy, And thine expectant mother cheer With those sweet tones she loves to hear. O that the blessed hour were nigh When thou shalt glad this anxious eye, With matted hair and hermit dress returning from the wilderness.” Kauśalyá’s conscious soul approved, As her proud glance she bent On Ráma constant and unmoved, Resolved on banishment. Such words, with happy omens fraught To her dear son she said, Invoking with each eager thought A blessing on his head.